


led me to calling you

by greeneyedharpy



Category: Bandom
Genre: F/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 19:44:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greeneyedharpy/pseuds/greeneyedharpy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon and Greta have phonesex. That is all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	led me to calling you

For all that she complains about doing bigger shows now, in big stadiums with ugly parking lots, Greta’s pretty glad that they often come with a stretch of grass and some trees. It’s nice to be able to have somewhere to sit and stare at the sky that isn’t cold and hard and uncomfortable. It’s especially nice on a summer night when she’s had enough of Bob and Chris and Darren and their fucking stupid antics, like attempting to stick drumsticks in holes they don’t belong, just because it’s kind of funny and they’re really bored. They don’t even notice when she slips away, out through the door and across the parking lot, because they’re too busy wrestling on the floor over what Greta’s pretty sure is Darren’s last pair of drumsticks until the next music store.

Although she sets off with thoughts of being alone, sprawling out on the dew-damp grass and staring up at the sky for an hour or so, when she spots Brendon sitting alone, she smiles. Greta doesn’t even know what to say about him most of the time. Sometimes she watches him leap on Zack’s back without warning, or sweet talk Shane out of the last beer on the bus, or escape Spencer’s attempts to kick his ass when Spencer discovers Brendon replaced all his cool headbands with pink ones. And, sure, she admitted to herself a long time ago that she sort of maybe had a thing for Brendon, but she’s so over that now, has been for ages, because they hang out all the time, and they’re self-declared tour bffs, and well. Greta doesn’t want to fuck that up by doing something stupid like listening to _Lying_ 148 times in one week, just because it makes her weak in the knees to listen to Brendon singing about being a better fuck. 

“I was just looking for you,” Greta calls out when she’s close enough for Brendon to hear her, turn around and smile. “I was just watching this thing on tv I thought you might like—” “Just” actually means last hotel night, but that doesn’t matter, not with the way days blend into each other on tour.

But Brendon seems preoccupied; his smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and he keeps flicking his bottom lip through his teeth. He drums his fingers on the ground and cocks his head to the side, as if he’s contemplating what to say next. “Haley and Cassie think we can’t be friends,” he says.

Greta’s stomach lurches and she drops to the ground next to Brendon, sweeping her dress underneath her. “Um.” If this is his way of ending the friendship with her, it is the weakest, most stupid way ever. She draws her knees up to her chest, hugging them close. “What?”

“Oh,” Brendon frowns, running a palm over the grass. “Just some stupid thing they were talking about. Cassie said guys and girls can’t be friends because they inevitably end up wanting to have sex with each other, and I said yes they can, what about you and me?”

Greta smiles into the dark, leaning to bump her shoulder into Brendon’s. “True,” she agrees, without mentioning the fact that sometimes she looks at Brendon’s lips and wonders what they’d feel like on her skin, or how she’s always catching Brendon looking at her boobs, or her ass, or her legs, when she’s straining for something and her dress rides up a little too high. “We are a sex-free zone. No sex here,” She lies, grateful for the dark. She stretches her legs out in front of her. Her toenails are painted in rainbow glitter, and occasionally the light from the venue and the buses will catch them, and they twinkle.

“Cassie and Haley are so wrong,” Brendon agrees, nodding beside Greta. _Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much,_ she almost says, but doesn’t. It’s not worth it, not when this is easy, and comfortable, and Brendon is humming _Barbie Girl_ under his breath. She sighs to herself. Brendon turns his head to look at her out of the corner of his eye. “So what was the tv show about?”

Greta has to keep from grinning, or giggling, mostly at the irony of this whole situation. Instead, she wiggles her toes and tucks her hands underneath her thighs. “It was about the history of sex,” she says. Calm as anything, she focuses on how the light is reflecting off the green sparkles on her toes. “Did you know that in the 18 and 1900s, there was this disease called hysteria, and that doctors treated it by masturbating their patients?” Greta laughs a little, especially when Brendon tries not to choke on thin air. “It was pretty cool,” she adds.

“With their hands?” He asks, after a minute passes and they’ve been sitting there in silence, listening to the crickets and the cars on the distant highway. Greta laughs, _yeah, sure, sex free_ , but Brendon ignores her. “Because I mean, most of the girls I’ve been with preferred to get to the eating out—” _Probably because of your mouth_ , Greta doesn’t say, “But when I did get to use my fingers, my arm got really tired.”

“Oh my god, you totally have no stamina,” Greta teases, and lies back on the ground. “You now join my band on the list of People I Would Not Go To To Cure My Hysteria.”

Brendon sounds longsuffering when he sighs, lying down next to Greta. It’s warm where their sides brush. “I’m not touching you down there.”

“You don’t have to,” Greta returns. “You’re on the list now. The rest of your band, though. Spencer, he looks like he really knows how to treat a girl right.” She props herself up on one elbow and her curls fall all over her face. “Or Jon, he’s so sweet, and warm and gentle. You think he’d be up for it?” She trails off; sweeping her hair out of her face so Brendon gets the full affect of her dreamy look. Greta is totally playing dirty now. Years of knowing Brendon and careful observation means she knows that nothing makes him want to do things more than imply his band mates could do it better. It’s not like she’s actually seducing him, per se, it’s just. Well. They talk about sex _a lot_ for two people who supposedly have no sexual interest in each other, so she’s just testing how far she can push the boundaries. 

“One,” Brendon starts, pushing himself up so he mirrors Greta’s position, “You don’t have hysteria. Two, just because my arms get tired, doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be good in other ways. Didn’t I mention how girls like it when I eat them out?”

“You think maybe I could get them to do me both at once?” Greta continues, deliberately ignoring Brendon. A saucy grin stretches across her face. “Spencer could maybe eat me out, his beard would feel really good rubbing against my skin. Oh and Jon, Brendon, _Jon Walker_. His fingers, they’re all thick and _god_.”

“Greta,” Brendon says, only his eyes have slipped closed and he’s breathing pretty quickly. If Greta is really still, she can hear them breathing together, quietly amongst the nighttime noise. She smiles and lies back on the grass, shivering a little as the cold creeps through her summertime dress. 

“Brendon Urie,” She grins in reply, taking his hand in hers and tangling their fingers together, “You would totally touch me down there if I asked.”

“I am afraid of girl parts,” Brendon counters. “It says so on the internet.”

“Brendon,” Greta swipes her thumb once, twice, three times over Brendon’s hand. In the distance, she hears Darren yell about the power of the drumstick ninja and Chris’s scream. “You’re so hard right now.”

Brendon’s cracks one of his eyes open and he grins, guilty about being caught in the lie. “That is totally unfair, Greta Salpeter. No man would be unmoved by talk like that.” He rolls onto his side again, scooting closer. “It would be the same as if I went, ‘I want to fuck you, Greta,’” Brendon’s eyes are half-lidded, and his voice is low and rough. “‘I want to cure your hysteria by lying you back on a bed, and pushing your legs open and—”

“I see what you’re doing there,” Greta cuts him off, before he goes on, because _god_ , she’s going to be having sex dreams for a month. “You can’t beat me at my own game, you know. Not unless you want me to start talking about how good it’ll feel with Jon’s fingers sliding into me…” She trails off with a groan, sliding her palms down her sides. She can totally out-sexy Brendon any day of the week.

“Well, maybe I’ll tell you about what it’ll be like when I lick into you,” Brendon retorts, raw and turned on. “Soft and teasing and light, and you’ll want more, but I won’t give it to you.”

Greta’s breath catches in her throat, and she shifts her hips on the damp ground, rearranging herself to feel comfortable with the pressure of her growing arousal in the pit of her stomach. 

“Now who’s hard?” Brendon asks smugly. He darts his tongue out to lick his lips. “Um, wet. Whatever." He blushes. "You know what I meant.”

If this is a seduction, and this is the point where Greta has to admit, yeah, it pretty much is, they're not very good at it. “Hard,” She snorts through her laughter. “Oh yeah, Brendon. You really get me hard. I’m so hard, I need you to fuck me right now.”

“Um.”

Jon is standing over Greta and Brendon, looking really, _really_ amused. Like, so amused, Greta’s pretty sure what he’s trying to communicate with the gleeful look on his face is, _Just wait until I get back to the bus and tell Spencer and Ryan and probably Bob and Darren and Chris too._

“Fuck,” Brendon curses, darting upright. Greta sits up and ducks her head so her face is obscured by her hair. Her cheeks are so hot they feel like they’re on fire. Oh god, what if he heard Greta talking about Jon fingerfucking her? She is going to _die_. 

“Come on, superstud,” Jon says to Brendon, mercifully ignoring Greta’s attempts to will the earth to open beneath her and swallow her up. Or for lightning to strike her down. Or for a meteor to fall out of the sky and crush her. Or a satellite. She’s really not fussy. “Bus call. We’ve gotta get going. Probably you too, Greta.”

“Yeah,” Greta mutters. Just her luck, there’s no lightning bolt, meteor or satellite, only the far off mocking, winking stars, dimmed by the city lights. She gets to her feet without once looking at Brendon or Jon. “See ya,” She says, taking off across the pavement as fast as she can, still walking, so Jon doesn’t think she’s running away. 

When she gets back to the bus, Greta glances once at her boys; Darren, wearing one of Spencer’s headbands like a ninja, Chris, sprawled on the floor, drumsticks tucked in the waistband of his jeans, and Bob, war paint stripes painted—“Is that my eyeliner, Robert Morris?”—on his cheeks; and says, “I’m going to bed.”

They don’t even manage a grumbled “’night,” before Greta ducks into her bunk and pulls the curtains shut tight. She lies there for five minutes on top of the covers, dress bunched uncomfortably around her, trying to get her breathing back to normal. It sounds too loud and too harsh in her tiny bunk. She closes her eyes and tries to go to sleep, but she can’t get Brendon out of her head, can’t stop thinking about what might have happened if Jon hadn’t turned up. Maybe she might have slid closer to him. Maybe he might have put his hand on her thigh, sliding it up, and up, and up, until—

Greta’s phone rings. She has to dig through half of her bunk to find it, buried underneath the covers, halfway down the bed.

“’lo?” She says quietly, once she’s finally recovered it. Rolling onto her side, she wiggles to get her dress straight where it’s twisted all the way around her. She wishes she’d changed into her pjs before she got into her bunk. 

“So I think I totally won that round.” Brendon's on the other end, breathing into the phone. Brendon who, just up until a moment ago, Greta was properly fantasising about fucking her with his deft, piano-playing fingers. God, she’s wet and aching and hitching up her dress before she can even think about it. “Yeah,” she agrees. 

“I was thinking,” Brendon says softly, words almost swallowed by a staticky rush of air. There’s another noise in the background, like the rustling of sheets, maybe. Brendon must be in his bunk. “I was thinking that maybe I should be a gracious winner and challenge you to round two.”

“I will win, Urie,” Greta smiles indulgently into the phone. “We’ve already established that you have no stamina. Your mouth might hurt from doing too much talking.”

“Ha ha,” Brendon retorts, almost whispering. She can still her his sheets rustling. “Because I was thinking, that while I’m eating you out, maybe I could use a finger or two as well, because my hand wouldn’t get too tired, and it’d feel really good for you.”

“What if that won’t cure my hysteria?” Greta asks, trying to keep her breathing steady. She has to close her eyes for a minute to try and talk herself out of being so turned on. This is stupid, she tries, this is _Brendon_. But Brendon’s talking about fucking her with his mouth and his fingers, and _oh god_. The rest of her band are just outside, so Greta has to be so careful not to make a noise when she slides her hand into her panties, rubbing her finger over her clit. If she’s quiet enough, not even Brendon will know what she’s doing. 

There’s still that rustling noise down the end of the line, and Brendon’s breathing just as unsteadily as she is. “You want me to fuck you, Greta?” Greta tries not to whimper, lying in her bunk with her phone tucked between her ear and her shoulder while she rubs her fingers against her clit, but all she can hear is his breathing, getting quicker and more frantic. The rustling she can hear, it hits her. Brendon’s not moving around in his bunk, he’s jerking off. 

“Maybe,” she purrs, grinning down the phone line. “Maybe I want to climb on top of you and take control.” Brendon’s answer is a moan, long, and bitten off when he realises he’s been caught. “I already knew you were jerking off,” Greta laughs. She doesn’t mention that it’s pretty hot.

Brendon breathes heavily into the phone for the next moment or two, like he’s considering what to do next. “Are you?” 

Greta could lie, and she considers this for a little while, as her thighs start to tremble when she pushes a finger into herself. It’s not like he’d really know, not for sure.

“Fuck,” Brendon swears. “Fuck it, I’m calling Chris. He’ll find out for me. Be prepared for company.”

That is absolutely the last thing Greta needs. She can’t even think of how embarrassing it’d be, everyone knowing she had phone sex with Brendon. “No!” She cries, almost too loudly, clapping her free hand over her mouth. “I mean, yeah, yes. I am.”

“Oh yeah,” Brendon crows, as the rustling starts again, “I think this makes me the winner of round two, too.”

But Greta’s not giving in so easily. “I’m thinking about you, Brendon,” she gasps, enjoying it when she hears Brendon whimper. “Fucking me with your fingers.” 

“Fuck,” Brendon pants. “Greta.” Then there’s a deep, rumbling groan, before everything on his end of the line goes silent. “I’m going to fuck you with my fingers next time we stop,” He says a minute later, when Greta’s absolutely buzzing with her orgasm, hovering on the edge.

“ _Yes_ ,” She cries as she comes, gasping for breath, her free hand clenched in her sheets.

“But before that,” Greta sort of adores that she can tell Brendon’s grinning into his phone, “I’m going to come over for cuddles in the morning. Give you the proper post-coital experience.”

Greta laughs, easy as that sweeping away any of the awkwardness that might have been lingering in the corners of her consciousness. “We just had accidental phone sex. I don’t know if you need to give me _any_ sort of post-coital experience at all. I mean,” she blushes, trying to find the right words to say. She can hear Bob and Darren arguing with Chris over apple pie vs pumpkin pie, and it’s all so fucking surreal, she can’t believe she just had phone sex, accidental or no. “If we’re going to um, keep going, be friends with benefits, I guess, you don’t have give me cuddles.” 

“Greta,” she imagines Brendon rolling his eyes into the phone, “We’re not just friends with benefits. We’re _nice_ friends with benefits. That means you get post-orgasm cuddles.” Greta can hear the laughter ringing in Brendon’s tone, so she grins as she pulls her dress the rest of the way off and digs around for the old t-shirt she knows is in her bunk somewhere.

She’s pretty ridiculously content in this moment, but she can’t pass up an opportunity to tease. “Spencer Smith would treat me better.”

Brendon laughs back down the line, so she guesses that he’s pretty happy himself. “Spencer Smith has to smoke a cigar after he comes. True fact.”


End file.
